Medallion
by Reese S. Quill
Summary: A series of ficlets and drabbles about Javert, Gavroche, and the unlikely bond the two shared.
1. Jeremiah

**A/N:**

**Disclaimer: Les Mis is not mine.**

**1. Jeremiah**

He didn't belong there.

Even when he was a young boy, Jeremiah Javert knew this with absolute certainty. He hated the life he was forced to live—sleeping on the hard floor, eating whatever scraps he could, using only rags to clothe his back. He hated the people who lived in close quarters with him, ruffians and thieves and vagrants eager to grab one of his things once his back was turned. His job as a pack-carrier was slow, heavy work, one he was always desperate to escape.

He hated his father most of all.

His mother was looked down upon – she earned her keep as a fortune-teller – a better profession than a prostitute like _some _other people's mothers were, he always argued – but Jeremiah despised his father. He was a convict, duty-bound to work in the galleys to pull ships safely on land. If he hadn't gambled his fortune away, maybe he could have made an honest woman of Jeremiah's mother and raised the family in relative comfort. Maybe Jeremiah didn't have had to be born in a prison.

Instead, they would forever be tainted with the touch of criminality.

But no way in Hell was he going to let that stop him.


	2. Street Rat

**2. Street-Rat**

When he was fourteen, Jeremiah was acknowledged the king of the streets – a title that had been awarded to him for being the sneakiest and fastest. His father gave him a yellow-toothed smile, and his mother squeezed his shoulder and prepared his favourite meal, but Jeremiah cared very little for his new honorific. He was careful because it was in his nature, and because he had to be; he doubted very much that it would help him where he _really _wanted to go.

The Academy of Paris offered but one scholarship, and he was determined to receive it.

He already knew his letters and numbers. Despite his mother's humble beginnings, she was fairly learned, and taught all she knew to her son. However, he didn't delude himself into thinking that would be enough to pass the exams—much less beat the slightly wealthier middle-class, who had been educated since they were children.

So every night, he let himself in the library and read until his eyes were bloodshot. If he was lucky, he'd be able to take the book home with him to examine when he could. He never read during the day – the people, he thought, loathed anyone trying to rise above themselves, and would probably take measures to keep him with them – so the only eyewitness to his extensive studying was the kindly old librarian who left the lamp burning for him.


	3. Dream

**3. Dream**

The evening before the exams, he perused a history book by his window, using the bright moonlight to make the pages visible. A cool breeze brushed through his hair. Paris was asleep; there was no danger of him being seen. Closing the old volume for a moment, his wistful eyes sought out the sky.

How fascinating the stars were. So high above, towering over the rest, untouched by the misery and selfishness that lay just below.

Jeremiah wished nothing more than to join them.


	4. Opportunity

**A/N: For any of you wondering, these drabbles happen in order; I'm going to focus on how Jeremiah became Inspector Javert first before I put Gavroche in.**

**4.** **Opportunity**

If Jeremiah was nervous for the exam, he didn't let it show. His face remained steely and passive, even when he heard the murmured comments about his shoddy clothing and obvious lower-class demeanour. Pointedly, he seated himself in a quiet corner far from the rest of the applicants; he did not wish to be disturbed. A risky move—one that might have sparked umbrage if the rest of the people with their own last-minute reviews.

The sun was lowering into the horizon by the time Jeremiah emerged from the building; he was somewhat pale-faced, but still standing. But his composure only lasted until he got home. He stayed sullen and silent over supper, picking at his food until he was sent to bed, afterwards spending the next few hours staring at the ceiling. He was utterly sure he had failed.

A month later, a messenger arrived.


	5. Letter

**5. Letter**

His fine garments, adorned with the academy's crest, stood him out from the poor neighbourhood's residents, who gawked and glared at the man with fierce suspicion. The messenger, in turn, nudged his horse hastily, wondering if he got the wrong address. Surely the winner of the scholarship could not live _here. _

He paused outside the small hovel, hesitation. A dozen pairs of eyes were boring a hole at the back of his head. He gave the door a smart rap, praying that whoever was within would answer quickly so they could get this matter settled. He sprang back, however, when the glowering face of Venir Javert appeared.

"What do yew want?" he growled.

The messenger's knees buckled. By some miracle, he choked out, "L-letter for Jeremiah Javert?"

Venir's glare intensified. Just as the messenger thought he'd never get out of there alive, Venir snatched the letter, pocketing it. "I'll give i' ter 'im," he snarled when he saw the messenger wanted to protest.

The man dearly wanted to run there and then, but he had to finish the message. "Sir…I'm honour-bound to tell you that if Javert does not send back word within forty-eight hours, he forfeits the scholarship."

Venir's eyes narrowed into slits. "Got it. Now get da 'ell out."

The messenger needed no further encouragement.


	6. Refusal

**6. Refusal**

When Jeremiah came back from work, his mind blurred and his body aching, he was cuffed from behind by his father and dragged to a corner. Without preamble, his father took out a letter and demanded, "What da 'ell is dis?"

Jeremiah's eyes widened momentarily – the envelope might hold the keys to his hopes and dreams – but he quickly schooled his face in a more neutral expression. "A letter from the Academy," he said evenly. "Didn't you see the crest?"

Venir's face formed a tight scowl, and Jeremiah sensed danger coming if he kept pushing.

"What's i' for, then? Messenger said it's fer you. Dressed up like a peacock like yew was someone impawtant."

"Mother already read it for you." He didn't need to be a genius to know _that. _

"Thee fnk I'd invade yar privacy?" Venir smiled his horrible smile, his breath near Jeremiah's face. He smelled alcohol. "Why, son, yew 'ave so little faif in me. Fine. I read it. Said 'ere yew won some scholarship –" Jeremiah's heart leapt –" but that's impossible." Venir glares at him. I say ter myself, Venir, yaaahr son can't 'ave won some scholarship. He's as fck as two bricks, an' besides, 'e wouldn't even en'er. So tell me, Jeremiah, why dis paper is 'ere?"

"Because I passed." Jeremiah answers clearly. Steadily. Proudly. He was so close to freedom, he didn't care who knew it. "And I'm going."

For a moment, Venir swayed drunkenly. His eyes glazed. Then he laughed. He laughed long and hard, and Jeremiah watched him, stunned. Before he could react, his father's hand reached out and snatched his wrist. His intoxicated façade was gone. "No, yer not."


End file.
